


Endlessly Broken

by Trin303



Series: Endlessly Yours [6]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, doctor helen wick, helen wick deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: He's back. John. The handsome, injury-prone man who never misses a trip to the emergency room on Thursday nights. Doctor Helen checks up her favorite patient after he comes in with severe burns."Good. Maybe try to take a week off from your… accidents. Let your body heal some.""And miss date night?"Helen smiles.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Endlessly Yours [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922308
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	Endlessly Broken

“He’s back again.” 

Helen spares a moment to look up from her paperwork and to Maggie, the lead nurse in the Emergency Room. “Who?”

“It’s Thursday.”

Ah. 

“Thursday night hottie.” Helen says before wincing, “We really shouldn’t talk about patients like this.”

“Why not? It’s true. He’s sexy as hell. And it is a Thursday.”

John Smith was his name, at least the one he gave. He never had any sort of paperwork, no insurance. He always paid his bill in full and with cash. He was tall and muscular and probably could have been on the front of GQ in another life. He always comes in in three-piece suits and patent leather shoes 

The injuries are varying. A fracture to his wrist, a terrible concussion, a stab wound to the thigh, a sprained ankle, whiplash from a car crash, a broken finger, stitches on a cut on his arm, abrasions, stitches on his temple.

It had been months now since her first came with a fractured wrist.

He would never tell her how he got it, although he would often come up with a brief line about how.

_Scratched by a rusty nail._

_Car accident._

_Fell down the stairs._

_Hit by a car._

_Walked into a door._

And then there was her personal favorite:

_Walked into a knife._

She would push for details and he would smile and prevaricate.

God, he drove her crazy.

Helen sighs and sets down her pen. “What’s the story this week?”

“You’ll love this.” 

Helen waits expectantly and Maggie does not disappoint, “He was making tea and spilled the hot water down his bicep.”

Helen snorts, stacking the papers back in a neat little pile. “It’s a simple mistake. One we’ve all made.”

“I swear, he’s the highlight of my week.”

 _Mine, too_. Helen thinks. “What room?”

“C19.”

Helen wanders down the hall, squirting hand sanitizer onto her hands before saying, “Knock knock.” She walks in and marvels at John Smith. Which she is absolutely certain is not his name.

He sits on the chair rather than the bed, as he always prefers to do. She considers having the bed taken out of the room on Thursday nights and replaced with a stool.

He is without his suit coat and vest tonight, his white button-down is folded carefully on the bed. His left arm with a blistering burn.

The same wound would have others in tears or wincing in pain. John looks as he usually does. Pleasant and unaffected.

“Good evening, John.”

“Doctor Kingston.”

“Let’s see the damage.”

He turns in his seat, revealing his arm.

He has welts down the front of his shoulder and the outer side of his bicep. She resists the urge to shake her head. 

“And how did this happen?”

“Spilled some hot water.”

She does not resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Were you holding the kettle above your shoulder?”

He smirks in response but says no more.

Helen sighs, “Well, it could have been worse. Were you wearing your suit jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That may have saved you from third-degree burns.” She puts on her glasses and examines the wound. Second degree, as she suspected. 

“I’ll wrap this for you but you’re going to need to take it easy.” She tells him.

“Sure.”

Helen sighs, “You make it difficult to believe you.”

Again, he smirks, the corner of his lip tipping up in a grin.

She fills a basin with water and brings it to his side, along with antibacterial soap. She knows better than to tell him it will hurt. She has set bones without him flinching.

“What are you reading this week?”

“ _Beyond Good and Evil._ Nietzsche.”

It’s her turn to smile, “I thought you said that Nietzsche was a conceited prick.”

“I stand by that statement. But there is value in his works all the same.”

“Like what?”

She cleans the wound gently and with great care. He doesn’t seem to notice. She thinks she could probably punch him directly in the blister and he would not react.

“Despite his blatant sexism and classism and complete lack of understanding of privilege, I understand the lack of meaning that he references. Morality has always been a tricky subject for me.”

“In what way?” She glances up. 

John Smith has never been anything but kind and respectful to her and the hospital staff. Aside from his prevarications when asked about his wounds, he is a perfect patient. A gentleman at all times.

“I don’t think I believe that there is meaning in life anymore.”

“But you did at one time?” She indicates the tattoo on his shoulder. A dark cross.

“I was raised in a Christian orphanage.”

And that alone is the most he has ever said to her about anything related to himself. She finds her hands pausing but she forces herself to continue, to make sure his wound is free of anything that could cause infection.

“Do you believe in God, Doctor Kingston?”

And there are boundaries that she does not typically cross. This is one of them. John is her patient and she should not treat him differently just because she was fond of him and because he was as close to a ‘regular’ as the ER ever got.

“I don’t.” She admits finally. “But my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, are not responsible for my morals.”

“What is?”

“Personal choice.”

“But is anything a choice? We are born into cultures that impose their values upon us.”

“But we do not have to take anything at face value. We can adjust our beliefs as we see fit.”

“So you believe that we are the onus for every action.”

“I think sometimes things happen beyond our control. But we have a choice in how we react. In the steps we take as a result.”

She sets down the cloth and goes back to the cabinet. She enters a code and opens one of the drawers.

“But that’s the catch, isn’t it?” John muses, “We can’t change the past. And sometimes that locks us into unbreakable habits, paths we can’t stray from.”

Helen finds the burn cream that she is looking for and turns back. “Do you think you’re on the wrong path, John?”

John doesn’t answer, at first, watching as she carefully applies the cream to his burn. She caps it and looks up at him expectantly.

He looks into her eyes. Warm and kind and everything that he is not. Everything that is beyond his reach. Everything that he cannot have.

“I think I’m in a tunnel where I can’t turn back. There’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, but forward.”

“And what lies ahead?”

“Death.”

“Yours?”

John snorts at that, “I’m truly not trying to sound conceited, but I’m not actually sure I can die.”

Helen rolls her eyes and unwraps a roll of gauze. “Given your Thursday night habits--”

“Accidents.”

“Sure.” Helen says with a small, indulging smile. “Given your Thursday night _accidents_ , I’d say you’re in pretty good shape. You heal quickly.”

“Always have.”

“It’s a good quality to have, although I wish you did not put it to the test so often.” She fastens the gauze and wraps it with tape, "you'll want to change this twice daily. Keep it moisturized. Water-based is best. Don't try any internet remedies like canola oil or toothpaste."

John smirks, "Is that a thing?"

"You'd be surprised. I don't need to tell you not to pick at it, do I?"

"No."

"Good. Maybe try to take a week off from your… accidents. Let your body heal some."

"And miss date night?"

Helen smiles, "I'll send Maggie in with your paperwork. Then you'll be free to go."

"Thanks, Doctor."

Helen makes her way to the door but stops, just shy of the exit. She looks back and John is shrugging on his white shirt.

"I don't know about this tunnel you're stuck in and I don't want to presume. But I do know a bit about self-fulfilling prophecies. If you think there's no way out, you won't see all the ways you can escape."

And he just stares at her and the power behind that gaze nearly makes her fall.

Like she is a lighthouse, a star, a guiding beacon.

She wants to say to hell with policy, to hell with boundaries. To walk across the room and bring him into her arms and tell him it will be okay.

"If…" he hesitates.

"If what?"

"If I can find a way out, can I buy you dinner?"

Helen smiles, "Yes."

And she exits the room, leaving John alone.

He has obligations. Contracts. Allegiances that won't simply let him walk away. It would be impossible.

But he would do the impossible.


End file.
